


As Light Flows Like Time

by soulmate328



Series: The Lengendary Half-Brothers [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: After Rebirth in Valinor, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Elements that aren't supposed to appear in an English myth, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Half-Sibling Incest, Healing in Lorien, M/M, Post-Canon, Reconciliation, Reminiscing, Second Age, Waiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25838458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulmate328/pseuds/soulmate328
Summary: Fingolfin was awakened by a strong sense of intimacy. He had been lying on the glades of Lórien since he left Mandos, haunted by visions of flames and towering shadows, unable to fit his soul perfectly into his new body. During his coma he felt he saw a slender figure with silver hair, petting his hair and covering him with a piece of soft fabric. Most of the time he dazed in miserable dreams, until that intimacy, the feeling that had a trace of Fëanor but more, suddenly filled his soul and led him out of his slumber."Fëanáro..." Fingolfin slowly opened his eyes, murmuring.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Idril Celebrindal/Tuor (minor)
Series: The Lengendary Half-Brothers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1869997
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [流光飞舞](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25728079) by [soulmate328](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulmate328/pseuds/soulmate328). 



> The original fic is too long, so I'll split it into parts.  
> I'm not a native English speaker, so the writing may not be that fluent or beautiful. Feel free to point out any mistake in the comments!

"Go forth, son of Finwë," declared Námo. "My duty ends here."

Fëanor would've considered the scene hilarious - there were two sons of Finwë right here, yet Námo referred to only one - if his half-brother wasn't in that miserable state. The gate in Mandos that leads to Lórien was opened wide, while stars, flowers, winds and fireflies sang in welcome for the third Noldorin High King's rebirth. Save the fact that Fingolfin was literally crawling on his hands.

"He cannot return to the living world yet, Námo!" Fëanor grabbed the Valar's robe. "Why do you agree to his unreasonable demand?"

"I have asked him many times, and he is determined. It is part of my duty to respect the free will of Eru's children."

"Oh, truly? You did not hesitate when you decided that I should never leave these halls!" Fëanor growled. "Spare me your hypocrisy. To you, free will is a joke! You know Ñolofinwë has not recovered enough to bear a solid form, then why do you let him leave? Is this what you claim as the rest for the dead?!"

"My respect is the reward for his valor. Your prison is punishment for your lack of remorse."

"Remorse? For challenging the murderer of my father?"

"You have no regret for the blood of your kin on your hands."

"Weaklings who deemed it wrong for a son to avenge his father. Their deaths deserve no pity!" Fëanor spat.

"As I said, you have no regret."

"I've heard enough!" Fëanor threw away Námo's robe and rushed towards Fingolfin. Two rays of light stopped him on his way, binding his arms. Two Maiars. "Let me go!"

"You are forbidden to approach the living world, Fëanáro," Námo's impassive voice echoed behind him.

"You think I will struggle like a bug? Let me go!"

As Námo fell silent, Fëanor could sense him reaching out to his Maiars, and then his arms were free.

Fëanor ran to Fingolfin, supporting him up with his hands. Námo had rebuilt his flesh, but Fingolfin, still in the Halls of the Dead, was not yet fully reborn. The dead have no tears, but indeed he wept, for he had witnessed the death of all his descendants. The only one alive that had his blood in Middle-Earth was Eärendil, and the only children left of his little brother were Galadriel and Gil-galad. He could barely maintain a solid form, with his spirit sparkling with burns and cracks left by fire and Morgoth's hammer, but still his eyes were set upon the living world, upon Lórien the Land of Transition where all the Returned must go through. He had begged for leave from Mandos at Námo's feet, so that he could wait in Lórien for the coming of his children, to soothe their pain and prepare them for a second life, regardless of whether his own pain had been healed.

Fëanor embraced him with all his strength. Countless times he had designed in his mind the words he would say to him when Fingolfin came to Mandos: a few lines of mockery, a few lines of praise, a few lines of acknowledgement unfit to be called comfort. But Fingolfin was leaving before even meeting him once, with that grief that blinded his eyes. No words had any use before that grief, not even the words of Fëanor, the once greatest loremaster of the Noldor.

"Brother," he said. "Get yourself together, brother. You are the one to ask for leave; at least behave properly."

Fingolfin turned in his direction, confused. He couldn't hear what Fëanor had said, for he was no longer one of the dead, though not yet fully reborn; the living could not hear the dead. "Come on, Ñolofinwë! My..." he wanted to say 'my children had died as well as yours,' but the sinful deaths of the House of Fëanor could hardly compare to the glorious sacrifices of the House of Fingolfin. "Don't do this, please don't."

Fëanor supported him, almost dragging him towards Lórien step by step. It was a garden like a delirious dream, where water flowed upwards and trees lined in impossible rows, as if space has lost its meaning. So near, and yet so far. "Almost there, Ñolofinwë," Fëanor said as his eyes focused at the front, unable to look down at the body twitching painfully in his arms. "Look, it's just over there! One more step, one more..."

But a shadowy mist surrounded Fëanor when he tried to take another step, and he found himself back to his starting point at Námo's feet, while Fingolfin lost his balance in the distance and fell onto the grass. Fëanor had wanted to rush over again, but Námo's voice still his feet. "He is back to the domain of the living, Fëanáro."

"But..." Just then when he started to argue a poppy at Fingolfin's side transformed into a man, similar to Námo in form but more lively and cheerful, no other than Irmo Lord of Dreams himself. He bent down to pick Fingolfin up, and walked towards his marvellous garden.

The gate of Mandos slowly closed. Loneliness and cold that seeped into the soul returned to him, as Fëanor watched the light of the living world grew dim with the shrinking crack between the doors. His half-brother's lingering warmth only increased his pain, and the Spirit of Fire nearly wept at the spot should Námo was not here and he had no need to conceal his feelings, though in his heart he knew that hiding was vain in front of the Judge of Fate.

The moment before the door shut, Irmo suddenly turned around, and gave him a mischievous smile.

Fingolfin was awakened by a strong sense of intimacy. He had been lying on the glades of Lórien since he left Mandos, haunted by visions of flames and towering shadows, unable to fit his soul perfectly into his new body. During his coma he felt he saw a slender figure with silver hair, petting his hair and covering him with a piece of soft fabric. Most of the time he dazed in miserable dreams, until that intimacy, the feeling that had a trace of Fëanor but more, suddenly filled his soul and led him out of his slumber.

"Fëanáro..." Fingolfin slowly opened his eyes, murmuring.

In his direct line of vision, in the sky between the forest canopy, a star was rising in the dusk. No other stars could hope to compare to that light, and Fingolfin knew at once that it must be a Silmaril from his brother's hands. And that further intimacy was no other than Eärendil, son of Idril, his great-grandson, whom he first met on the tapestries of Vairë and set his loving gaze upon time after time. His only living descendant in this world.

The fabric slid off his body as he sat up in the grass. Fingolfin unfolded it, and saw that it was embroidered with the scene of two souls embracing at the gate between Mandos and Lórien. One of them was fiery red, struggling to support his companion in his arms.

What it meant Fingolfin knew not, but there was faint nostalgia in his heart. He stood up carefully with the fabric wrapped around himself, walking towards the direction from which the smell of water came, and eventually arrived at Lake Lórellin where Estë slept. The water was clear and cool, mangos, peaches, laurels, and pears grew on the shores, and in mid-air floated islands tilting in all directions, with different structures, soil, vegetation, and animals on each one of them, providing him with either replenishments or sights to enjoy. In Lórien there was no need for houses, for all the natural environment could somehow become places fit for rest and living. And so he settled at Lórellin, with the earth as his sheets and the sky as his quilts.

But though his soul had fit into his body, ice, flames, shadows, and grief still troubled him. Fingolfin would wander into the deep woods in his first days of arrival, making for the darkest places with sad stubbornness. He had done so back when the news of Aredhel's death first came from Gondolin, but as High King he only indulged himself for one day, and returned to the throne with his sorrows concealed. Even so, that one day had become one of Fingolfin's clearest memories, driving him to wander long in the woods of Lórien. The Dark Elf and the shadow that came with him took her, his bright, silvery daughter, so he searched for her in places where no light could be found.

"Írissë!" He called, leaning on a tree covered with the scales of a snake. "Írissë, my child!" He wept as he brushed away branches shaped like wings of birds. "Don't go out there, come back."

Fingolfin fell into a cluster of bushes. There was no light here as he had hoped, but then the berries in the bushes slowly opened, and moths flew out with golden light in their little hairs. He drove them away with his hand, as they bothered him instead of cheering him. "Away! I will lose track of Írissë!"

A hand suddenly seized his wrist, a hand fiery hot. A slender figure in a dark robe appeared in the soft golden light of the moths. "Your daughter is not here," said a low voice.

"I know," Fingolfin said sadly. "She has left me."

"No, she's still on her way. You shall see her soon."

"Yes," Fingolfin managed a bitter smile. "I will see her soon enough. The Doom of the Noldor comes for us all."

"Cease your babbling, half-brother," the hand gave him an almost painful squeeze. "You will not want your daughter to see you like this."

Fingolfin stared at the figure for a moment, and smiled. "I'm dreaming."

"Perhaps. This is Lórien after all," the man said with resignation. He picked Fingolfin up and headed for the exit of the woods. "You've always been the source of all my trouble."

"I'm dreaming," Fingolfin repeated. "Fëanáro will not leave Mandos. He cannot."

"Irmo stole me out, temporarily. Now shut your mouth, I've had enough of your wails these days."

"I didn't," Fingolfin retorted weakly, but soon he fell asleep in the warmth that surrounded him.

He woke on the shores of Lórellin, the first dreamless sleep he had since his rebirth. The sun peeked at the world from below the horizon, painting the sky in red, white, and blue. Beside Fingolfin was a patch of black bamboo forest, and at its edge, a red light glowed on a large rock. Fingolfin found it to be a ring, with two silver stallions standing to hold up a ruby, one with its head and another with its front hooves, and little diamonds scattered around the jewel in the shape of flames. Sunlight lingered in the ruby, so Fingolfin knew that it was forged with the skill of capturing light. He thought of the slender figure in a dark robe as he wore the ring on his right hand, not sure if he was in a dream.

Just as the figure (of Fëanor?) told him in his dream, Aredhel soon arrived. She wore a piece of fabric embroidered with no story or scene, only silver stallions galloping on a white field. She came strolling along the shore, fondling the willow branches when snowy catkins fell into her hair. Fingolfin called her Írissë, but she did not respond, only turning her head when he called her Aredhel; she almost forgot her Quenya name during the lightless days in Nan Elmoth. Fingolfin embraced her tightly, shutting his eyes so the tears wouldn't come bursting out.

"I must come back, for Lómion," she told her father. "I saw what he did...he will be spurned and cast aside if he ever returns among my kin. I must wait for him here, to protect him and guide him. I've failed to do it before."

Fingolfin petted her head. "You don't seem like a good mother indeed. But rest assured, I will aid you in this."

"He was taken by Morgoth," Aredhel wept. "He didn't want to..."

"There is no difference between him and any Noldor, Írissë," said Fingolfin. "Deceived, blinded, and at last committing crimes unspeakable."

Aredhel's death wasn't as heroic as her brothers', but the pain she endured was in no way less than theirs. The experience of being tortured by poison caused her to have mild seizures from time to time, though no poison flowed in her veins anymore. She would often faint when walking, but still she continued to explore the floating islands in Lórien, unwilling to stay in one place. Fingolfin was worried at first, but every time she fainted, some strange creatures would carry her back. Once she was carried on the back of a goat with golden fleece, another on the backs of rabbits with hooves. These circumstances added some pleasure in the process of healing, as Fingolfin recalled the fairytales about Elven princesses told among Men.

Before he knew it, traces of artificial construction started to appear around Fingolfin's dwelling. It was plainly not built by Aredhel, since she herself was surprised as well, but by a very pure Noldor - which could be perceived from the style that stubbornly excluded all Vanyarin and Telerin elements - with extremely skilled hands and an insistence in artificial processing. Fingolfin vaguely realized whose hands were these traces from, but the possibility of that assumption was too low for him to be sure.

Until one morning, he saw Aredhel quarreling with a slender figure in dark robe by the lake.

"I am not my father," she said with a cold fury. "And unlike him, I do not need reasons or excuses for anything I do and think. Elenwë died, Arakáno died, and I despise you, that is all. Do not tell me that it was my father's decision, he is my father, not you, and on you shall I place my blame. Now leave my sight at once, and bear no hope to hear from me anything about Tyelkormo and Curufinwë."

The figure left with a flounce. The next day Fingolfin woke to find himself surrounded by a completed house instead of just traces of construction, and there was even a spare room for Aredhel on the side. He walked inside and saw the man in robe carving out patterns on the wall with a little hammer in a childish fury.

"Írissë cast you out, and you built a room for her?" Fingolfin asked, amused.

"It is your crude living habits that bothered me," the man mumbled, apparently still annoyed. "You wouldn't even build a house for your daughter?"

"It is you who's doing the unnecessary. There is no need for abodes, all of this place is fit for resting."

Fingolfin used no name, for he still wasn't certain whether this man was real. But then the man turned around and revealed in front of him the face he remembered so well.

"Whose fault was it?" he asked. "The deaths of your son and your daughter-in-law?"

"Mine, of course," Fingolfin replied. "As Írissë said, they are my children, not yours, so the fault was mine. The same goes for your sons; you are to be blamed for their deaths."

Fëanor threw away the hammer. "You wore the crown you shouldn't have. You made my sons the Dispossessed."

"You led your sons into that situation. You died, and because of that, you weren't there to secure your crown when I came. You died and left everything to Maitimo, and that was his decision."

"You died and left everything to your son as well. All the mess you left behind."

"Yes," Fingolfin said softly. "All my life I've longed to surpass you, yet in the end, I was no better."

"Surpass me?" Fëanor sneered. "So your oath meant little, indeed."

"Indeed, it wasn't so unfair for me to end like that if I've truly believed you would be a good king."

"You're always like this, all pretty words that linger on the surface. An oath is meant to be kept, whether you're willing or not."

"You have two sons left, Fëanáro."

This had finally caused some harm. Fëanor said no more and left.

The healing of Lórien, not limited to resting, served as a final test as well. As if to match with Aredhel's thoughts, the woods on the shores grew into a forest, with huge canopies blocking out all light, and bright-colored plants spreading sweet, dangerous scents. None of this would truly harm, but they were enough to draw out the sorrow in Aredhel's heart. She feared the dark forest but was unwilling to be trapped, so Fingolfin went with her in search of the exit.

Darkness shrouded them, and the sweet smell of plants formed illusions. "We're lost," Aredhel did not falter, but started shivering in anxiety. "Don't touch those flowers, father! They're poisoned; I've seen Eöl crushed and smeared them on his arrows, blades, and spears..."

"They aren't poisoned, and we aren't lost, Írissë. Look, Eärendil's star is right there," Fingolfin raised his right hand to let the light precipitate in the ruby, illuminating the dim woods. "Follow it and we will find the way."

Aredhel's illusion grew more and more horrifying. She saw the shifting glaciers of Helcaraxë, her most beloved brother rushing towards cracking ice to save his wife and daughter. "I must help him, father," she struggled as Fingolfin caught her arm. "Itarillë cannot lose her mother!"

"Elenwë has returned to the world of the living, Írissë," consoled Fingolfin, though he himself had grown stiff from the illusionary blizzard. He saw those sleeping guards of his with pale faces and could never be woken, the fires they burned to cook the meat of their loved ones' bodies. Who have I eaten? Some names swirled in his head. I will not remember them. I must remember them.

"Arakáno," Aredhel's eyes moistened. "He was so reckless. He defended Itarillë, and all those who couldn't fight. He was so young..."

"He was valiant, Írissë. It has passed now." He recalled himself taking his youngest son in his arms. He lifted his head, and the newly risen Ithil became blood-red in his eyes.

Aredhel saw Maeglin taken by Orcs and tortured. She rushed towards her son, but again was stopped by Fingolfin. "Morgoth, father!" Aredhel cried. "Morgoth took my son!"

And Fingolfin saw Morgoth, too. He saw the towering Valar clothed in flames and shadows, swinging his warhammer down. He suppressed a tremble and soothed his daughter, "It's all passed, Írissë. Morgoth is not here." In his eyes, Morgoth lifted a foot to trample him, and Fingolfin almost darted away, his hands searching for Ringil on himself anxiously, but he told himself that all this was false. He fixed his eyes upon Eärendil's star. At least he had this one kin who remained safe and sound.

But then he saw Fëanor, crowned in Silmarils. They stood in sea waves red with blood, and Fëanor turned to give him a merciless smile. "You've achieved nothing, Ñolofinwë."

Fingolfin stopped still. The world changed in front of his eyes; Alqualondë drenched in blood, Tirion in the darkness, the winds of Helcaraxë, Beleriand devoured by magma. I have achieved nothing. He saw Morgoth's warhammer smashing onto his tired form. "I can see light, father," said Aredhel. "We're almost there! Father?" But Fingolfin could not hear her.

A hand seized his wrist, a hand fiery hot. Fëanor's eyes shimmered in the dark like sparks, drawing Fingolfin's gaze. "What are you doing here?" he heard Aredhel said coldly. "I said, I don't want..."

"Your father is in the grip of illusions," said Fëanor. "Only a few steps left, Ñolofinwë. Is it so hard?"

His brother was fire, the secret-fire placed by Eru in his soul. But all ended in fire as well - Fëanor himself, Fingolfin's kingdom, Fingon, Gondolin. Fingolfin smacked away Fëanor's hand. "I don't want you," he said, leading Aredhel out of the forest, ignoring his brother's widened eyes.

Fingolfin no longer wandered in the woods, and Aredhel never fainted again. As if complying with Fingolfin's words, Fëanor disappeared for many days. Perhaps he was just sane again, since Fingolfin never knew for sure if that was truly Fëanor. The woods were no longer so lush and dark, and the view around them became beautiful and bright. Colorful fruits hung on branches, animals scurried the woodland, the sound of streams grew clearer, and an island covered in glades and wildflowers appeared near them, with horses with a horn on their heads galloping through. Aredhel often rode them across the grasslands, laughing out for the first time since she left Mandos. Fingolfin's eyes brightened, his hands remembering the skills he possessed as a Noldor, and started building houses beside the lake. He had a feeling that many would come very soon.

It wasn't until months later that he saw Fëanor again in an afternoon. He followed the sound of wood carving that came from an unfinished hut, finding Fëanor inside as he walked in. He was fixing the wooden furniture Fingolfin had made, adding some patterns on them. "Are you real?" asked Fingolfin.

Fëanor turned to him. "So all this time you thought you're dreaming?"

Fingolfin stepped forward to remove the hood on Fëanor's head. His fingers combed through the dark hair, touching the tip of one ear, resting on Fëanor's cheek. Fëanor half closed his eyes, pressing his face into the palm. "I remember the last time we met," Fingolfin murmured. "We were quarreling at the beach. You called me a traitor, I called you a madman."

"Unexpectedly accurate descriptions," said Fëanor.

"Doesn't matter. It's all over now." Fingolfin went to one knee before him, regarding that face carefully. "Our kingdoms in Endor are no more."

Fëanor closed his eyes completely. "You said you don't want me. Do you think it was I who resulted in all the tragedies?"

"I thought you know this for a fact."

Fëanor stood abruptly. "Me? You will blame me instead of Morgoth?"

"Of course I blame you. I have no words for Morgoth, only swords."

Fëanor stared at him for a moment and sat down. Fingolfin held his face in his hands. "I have a tapestry. It was on me when I woke..."

"It's you and me embroidered on it."

"So it was you who pulled me up," he caressed Fëanor's brows, the corner of his eyes, his lips, and his jaw. "It's really you."

Fëanor said no more, allowing Fingolfin to feel the shape of his body with his fingertips. Fingolfin held up his hand, tracing every vein and every joint and every well-trimmed nail, turning it over to feel the callouses, the lines in the palm. Fëanor shivered at the itch when he touched his palm, seizing Fingolfin's right hand and stroked the ring with his thumb.

"You received it," said Fëanor.

"Yes, brother," Fingolfin bent down to lay a kiss on his palm. "I miss you."

They dined together that night. Aredhel was exploring on other islands, so Fëanor didn't have to worry about being kicked out by Fingolfin's protective daughter. Fingolfin caught fish and gathered some ottelias[1] from the lake, preparing a fine dinner for Fëanor and himself. He clearly hadn't eaten for a very long time; at first, he stared at the food in bewilderment, as if confused by his body's reaction of salivating at the smell. He tried it hesitantly, and quickly finished his share as elegantly as possible. When they dined, the cool breeze swayed the tapestry embroidered with two souls that Fingolfin hung at the window, flowing with silvery moonlight. Fëanor walked towards Lórellin after supper, boarding a wooden boat resting on the shore.

"I must go back to Irmo. Námo doesn't allow me to leave him for too long." Fëanor said as he pushed the boat from the shore. They looked into each other's eyes, until the boat disappeared into the mists on the lake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Ottelia's full name is Ottelia acuminata. It doesn't seem to have a common English name, since it only grows in my country. It's a kind of plant that grows underwater, but its flowers are above the surface, with white petals and golden stamens. They are very beautiful to look at when blossomed, but they're fit for eating as well.


	2. Chapter 2

On a night with a full moon, Fingolfin's feeling came true. A group of Noldor came from Mandos, led by no other than Argon. They were the Elves that perished at Helcaraxë, and only then did they recovered enough from the wounds left by blizzards to return to the world of the living. Lórien was in no way cold, but still they gathered materials and wrapped themselves in heavy clothes. Argon didn't do the same, instead he encouraged them to lay down past sorrows. Fingolfin's youngest son was the bravest even after going through death.

"I've failed you, father," but in front of Fingolfin, he said with his head bowed low. "I failed...I wanted to become your right arm, but even in the first battle I..."

"You are my right arm, long before we stepped into the ice, long before the Trees had died," said Fingolfin. "You've never failed me, Arakáno. You fought bravely, and defended our people."

Besides their fear of cold, these Elves had an insatiable hunger. Berries weren't enough to fill their bellies; their appetite could only be satisfied by hot food, or they would fell into unnatural anxiety, in which they tremble and tore their hair, and even stare at their companions with hungry eyes. So Fingolfin and Argon organized them to prepare food every day. Many plants and animals in nearby islands were eatable, combined with the many brains, there was no lack of materials or dishes. 

Aredhel gathered, Argon chopped, and Fingolfin cooked. Every time Fëanor came visiting, Fingolfin placed him in the kitchen to watch out for the fires - these Elves that died on the ice would probably send him back to Mandos if they saw him. The Great Craftsman was clearly displeased by the work Fingolfin gave him, but Fëanor wasn't one to slack for these reasons; he built stoves that were easier to control the fire and worked diligently. After a day of hard work, Fingolfin would save him a bowl of hot soup, sealing the container carefully for Fëanor to bring onto the boat.

Before long, Lórien's test for these Elves had arrived. The temperature dropped bit by bit, until snow suddenly fell from the sky, clothing the forest, the glades, the plains and the islands in pure white, freezing the water in Lake Lórellin. They sank into panic, thinking that they had returned to Helcaraxë, and all the loveliness of Lórien was nothing but a dream they had before their death. There was no winter in Valinor, and they had no idea of what that season was since they've set foot on Middle-Earth, but Fingolfin knew well enough - this was only winter, a common scene in Middle-Earth, and it didn't even count as a very harsh one. But it was enough to wake the fear in their hearts.

To erase their fear, Fingolfin taught them the sport of skating he had learned from Men in Middle-Earth. There was fine metal on an island for him to forge the blades, and animal skin could be made into boots. Argon was the first as usual, taking Fingolfin's hand and walking onto the ice, learning the tricks very quickly. Following his example, more and more Elves dared to walk on the ice, and some younger ones even felt the fun. Sometimes the snow grew heavy, yet they still had to labor in the white, then Fingolfin would raise his right hand to let the warm red light in his ring guide their way.

The false winter finally passed after a quarter of a year. The snow had started to melt, but the ice on Lórellin lingered. One night when no one was around, Fingolfin took Fëanor for a walk on the ice. Ithil was nowhere to be seen, and Eärendil's star ruled the nighttime sky. Fingolfin sank into memories as he watched the star, failing to notice Fëanor wrapping himself tighter in the dark robe.

"I felt your death at Helcaraxë," he said dreamily. "A red star shot across the sky, I saw it and knew that you were dead. I thought nothing and felt nothing, except for disbelief. I couldn't understand why you died so early - your rage burned so hot, I thought you would only cease when the world ends."

"Nor could I understand the reason why you despaired," said Fëanor. "You did not lose completely then. How could you deliver your life to the hands of Morgoth?"

"I saw cities and lands devoured by flames. I received news of my nephews' death before I could even go to their aid. Lalwen died, my most beloved sister, and years of labor were destroyed, hundreds of years. I did not know whether your sons still lived, or where Turukáno's kingdom was, or where Findaráto and his people had gone. My people melted in the heat, and Men died in front of my eyes - the death of mortals! You will not understand unless you've seen it with your own eyes, Fëanáro. They just...vanished. I thought I knew death when father died, and how naive I was! When my people died I could feel the traces they left in Arda, proof that they were still in this world, but not Men. I sensed something missing in the world when they died, something that had departed permanently, to a place I do not know and cannot find. You will not understand, Fëanáro."

"You bear such love for the Secondborn?"

"One of them was my son. We weren't bound by blood, but he was my son," Fingolfin said softly. "Hador Lórindol, I bore witness to his whole life. I saw the birth of his children and grandchildren. I saw him aged to an extent I might reach after eons. I saw their graves covering the whole hill. Now I could only see him again when Arda goes to ruin."

Fëanor shifted his weight uncomfortably between his feet. "I do not understand, indeed. Their life was a blink of an eye to us. Besides, the Valar clearly planned to the Secondborn rule over Endor. This arrangement annoys me."

Fingolfin smiled. "Interesting. I can't recall how many times I've heard them say 'how I wish I could live in the Blessed Land.' You are more like them than you imagined, Fëanáro. Neither of you could be satisfied with what you already have."

"Me? Like them?"

"Yes. Do not retort so quickly! I am the one who's seen them, not you. You have no say in this matter."

They returned to the shore when the ice started to shift. On the shallow water, the ice beneath Fingolfin's feet cracked, sending him falling into the lake. The water merely covered his thighs, but the newly melted lake was still freezing. At some moments he went back to Helcaraxë, the long journey with no day, no night, and no sleep - he must listen carefully to the sounds of grinding ice to estimate the safety of the road before them. Now it was like he had heard the endless rumble once again, hurting his eardrums and making him shiver in cold, weariness, and fear.

Fëanor pulled him up. "There was nothing," Fingolfin mumbled with his arms closed around himself. "Everything's the same..."

"You're not in Helcaraxë anymore, Ñolofinwë."

"I never wore hats, so the people could see me in the white," said Fingolfin. "I couldn't feel my ears. The healers offered to cut them off..."

"You should've gone back to Tirion, Ñolofinwë."

"You should've come with me through the ice, Fëanáro. We shouldn't have taken those ships."

Fëanor took him back to his house in silence. The next morning Fingolfin woke in his arms, with the fire filling the room with warmth and comfort. Fingolfin walked him to the shore, and for the first time crossed the lake with him, as the ice cracked before their boat to make a road. Warm rain started falling from the sky, and Fëanor sheltered them a white umbrella in the boat. Fingolfin grabbed hold of the handle as well, his fingers overlapping with Fëanor's. When the boat came close to the island of Estë, Fëanor walked on the large leaves of water lilies to go ashore. Before he left he turned to hand over the umbrella to Fingolfin. "I will come to retrieve it next time," he said as he watched the boat bearing Fingolfin away.

Soon Argon departed with his followers from Lórien, and another group of Elves arrived, all those who perished in Dagor Bragollach, led by Írimë the King's sister herself. But Aegnor and Angrod weren't included, as the former still grieved for the death of Andreth, and his twin brother deciding to accompany him in Mandos. Írimë was the head of the reinforcements Fingolfin sent to Dorthonion in their aid, yet that departure became the farewell between brother and sister. She died of flames and poisoned smoke as she escorted the people's retreat.

This was a group of Elves that couldn't suffer closed space. Many of them suffocated to death as the fire consumed all oxygen, so they had difficulty breathing when the air around them reduced for the slightest measure, a symptom almost similar to an illness called asthma that Fingolfin had seen among Men in Middle-Earth. He could only tear down all the roofs and walls, piled at the side for the next group of Noldor to use. They were fond of swimming in the lake, but the water wasn't completely clean; one day an eagle whispered some hints in Fingolfin's ear, so he filled a cup white porcelain with water from the lake and splashed it into the sky, and rain started falling that sent the people into euphoria.

The first thing Írimë did when she saw him was scolding. "How could you do such a thing? How could you just leave Findekáno and Turukáno behind and die on your own? What about Arafinwë's children, your nephews? And Fëanáro's children? What about your people who needed comfort more than ever?"

"I..."

"Don't say anything, Arakáno. I know why you did it, I just wanted to say those words out loud," Írimë embraced him. "I've always thought you are the best brother, until you started quarreling with Fëanáro. I realized that your wisdom wasn't that stable, either."

Fingolfin smiled and patted her back, "You're absolutely right."

As Írimë came to him, the ancient knowledge of the Vanyar in Fingolfin's head was awakened, and he started to gain strength from the light of Eärendil's star. Fëanor might know how to store light in matter, but it has always been the Vanyar who knew best among Elves about the light of the Trees. During their Golden Age in the Blessed Realm, the Vanyarin monks would enter the Pelóri with no nourishment, surviving only on the energy provided by the sacred light, so that they would come close to the nature of the Ainur and perceive the rules of the world and the mysteries of the universe. Fingolfin had learned these skills from his mother's people, and though his understanding of the sacred light was far from the level of the monks, it was enough for him to retrieve his former strength.

Perhaps because Fëanor would visit from time to time, tapestries with different stories appeared in Fingolfin's house. He used them to decorate his dwelling, as they flowed with the breeze and shimmered under the Sun and the Moon.

Many officers found Fingolfin and begged for his pardon; they considered their own misconduct as the reason why the war was lost. Fingolfin mentioned no pardon or mistake, but he listened to them telling about those last fights, as he told them of his final battle with Morgoth.

"I blew the horn and challenged him to a duel...I drained my store of dirty words...as expected, he couldn't let me humiliate him in front of his lackey, and came out to face me...he was tall, almost as tall as Mindon Eldaliéva...he was dragging a warhammer in his hand, shaped like a wolf's head and spilling fire from its jaw..."

The night after he first told the story, Fëanor slipped into his chamber, and Fingolfin knew he had heard it all. Fëanor hesitated for a moment as Fingolfin drew back his sheets, but at last he crawled into his bed compliantly.

"I saw that battle of yours," he said. "On the tapestries of Mandos."

"I must look humiliating."

"I've pictured father like this when I was little. Leading our people across Endor like a star."

"Then why did you wish to go back there again? You knew what hardships father went through to get us out of there."

Fëanor shifted in bed. "The Valar had turned this place into a cage."

"You think so because you've never listened carefully to what they said. Do you know who else built a 'cage?' Turukáno. He was even harsher than the Valar, since he actually didn't allow anyone in his kingdom to leave. But it was not meant to cage," Fingolfin drew a finger across his brother's jaw. "He built Gondolin to preserve hope, when all other lands had sunk into despair. One day Arda will perish as well, and all the beauty will be lost as time itself restarts. Valinor exists to preserve the beauty, so that the new Theme will have a good beginning."

Fëanor's pupils widened. "I've...never thought of it in this way."

"You are too urgent in taking, Fëanáro," Fingolfin kissed the tip of his nose. "We are not born to rule, but to increase the beauty and bliss of Arda. Managing was only ever a derivative. If we forsake this original purpose, we are no different than Morgoth."

"Ironic that this comes from the mouth of 'High Chieftain.'"

"Ironic that 'Skillful Finwë' needs to be told of this."

"Once you fought for power with me. Now you speak like Vanyar."

"I thought you were the one who kept emphasizing that part of my blood."

"Your mother's people never leave that mountain, and their children will never set their eyes on Endor. How can this be good?"

"They are in Endor right now, Fëanáro. Continuing the war we had lost."

Fëanor shut his eyes, gathering Fingolfin in his arms.

"I hope Nelyo and Kano are safe," said Fëanor. "Eärendil's children are in their protection."

Fingolfin raised his head. "Eärendil's children? Are you sure?"

"I am. I saw them on the tapestries of Mandos," Fëanor petted his hair. "Your great-great-grandsons, a pair of dark-haired twins...but I'm afraid that comes from their mother."

"Great-great-grandson...?" Fingolfin murmured in a daze.

"Your blood thrives," Fëanor smiled bitterly. "I wonder where Telpë is right now."

The third test of Lórien was a shower of stars, but Fingolfin named it thus only because he had no idea what it was himself - sparks rose from the distant horizon, exploding into circling flames in the sky. Fires of red, green, blue, and gold swirled in the heavens, sending a wave of fear in the Noldor by the lake. They could not bear the noise and the blinding explosions, though Aredhel tried to persuade them that they're harmless. "Listen," Fingolfin called. "In the east, there is laughter coming from Tirion! This is not something to be feared; this fire is lit for celebration."

For nights the fire lightened the nighttime sky, while the animals in Lórien sang with the sound of sparks. Every night more Elves shed their fear, until all of them woke from the fear and started to appreciate the beauty of the flames, cheering with their kin far away in Tirion.

"What are those exactly?" Fingolfin asked Fëanor afterwards.

"That is Olórin's invention. He named it 'fireworks,'" Fëanor replied. "Incredible that such a joyous thing was made by a Maiar of Nienna."

"There were cheers in Tirion as well. This must not be for us alone."

"No. Good news came from Endor, Ñolofinwë. Your great-grandson has slain the black dragon of Morgoth."

Fingofin failed to suppress a proud smile. "My blood, indeed."

"You didn't raise him," Fëanor muttered.

In a few days, Írimë led her group out of Lórien. "I will bring the news to mother and sister," she said. "You will return as soon as possible. If I still haven't seen you when all your children have returned, you know what to expect from me!"

They walked towards the world of the living, bathed in the rising sun. Fëanor gazed obsessively at the flaming disk upon a hill, with Fingolfin at his side. "I thought the Silmarils are the most beautiful light in the world," he whispered. "How...Anar it is called? It is thousands of times brighter than the Trees. How can such a thing even exist?"

"Which one do you like?" Fingolfin asked. "The Sun and the Moon."

"The Moon," Fëanor answered without hesitation. "Its light is gentler, and resembles my creations."

"I thought you'll like the Sun, since its fire is similar to your nature," Fingolfin said with interest. "I like the Sun better. It was night when we set foot on Endor; the Moon rose, and my people wept on the ground as they bore witness. Arakáno died under the Moon as well. But when the Sun appeared, all the sorrow and cold had left us. I rid myself of those heavy garments, and unfolded my banner in Endor for the first time. Wildflowers were blossoming on the glades under my feet; all these years had passed, and I still think they are the most beautiful flowers in Arda, even more beautiful than those groomed by Yavanna with her own hands."

A nearby stream was flooding, due to Fingolfin's pleading for rains for the past months. The water rose above the banking, flooding some bushes and trees, driving the animals to flee.

"We should go dredge the riverbed a little," said Fëanor.

"No," said Fingolfin. He chanted a few words and performed some gesture, and a ray of sunlight was gathered in his palm, bringing the ring on his hand to shimmer. He sent the light burning towards the stream, vaporizing the excessive water, the ray so sharp it cut open the surface. When at last the flood was ceased, a rainbow streaked in the air, bridging the two sides of the lake.

"You're more like a Vanyar every day," said Fëanor. "I've seen your mother do the same thing. She would climb on top of Mindon Eldaliéva on every festival, gather the light of Laurelin with nothing but her hands and voice, send them into the lens to light the beacon on top of the tower."

"Yes. It is a quite common technique among my mother's people," Fingolfin replied. "On the Homage of Varda, every Vanyar would choose their favorite star to carry its light in their palms, and they would walk across seven mountains - symbolizing the seven Valar and Valier - and return to Ilmarin on Taniquetil, to release the light back to its source. If the light was willing to stay, Varda would permit it to linger on the Vanyar that summoned it."

"It sounds beautiful," Fëanor said softly.

"I will walk with you through that road sometime," Fingolfin laid a kiss in his hair. "I will teach you how to implore the light to stay in your hands."

"Implore?"

"Implore. You created the skill of storing light, but the method my mother's people use was different from yours. With the right words, you can implore the light to stay with you temporarily."

"Do you think that Silmaril in the sky will answer my imploration?"

Fingolfin was stuck for a moment. "I do not know. As I said, it is implore. It's all about the light's own will."

Fëanor settled his head on his shoulder. "Then it is a no, very likely."

Together they returned the roofs and walls on the houses. When the last bricked settled in its place, those who perished in Nirnaeth Arnoediad had arrived. They came in factions, for none led them. Fingolfin did not see Fingon after receiving many groups. "Where is Findekáno?" He asked every time a group came. "The King is unwilling to leave yet. He said he has reason to stay and wait," said Fingon's guards.

These Noldor feared nothing. They simply wept endlessly, repeating song after song of laments, even so, they could not tell all the grief that took place in that battle. In these times Fingolfin would often miss the Secondborn - the sadness of the Firstborn only increases over time, but the Secondborn could soon be used to it. Death was everywhere to them; they die of a thousand reasons even without war, so even the most pessimistic ones among them seemed optimistic in the eyes of Elves. Fingolfin tried his best to remember Hador, remember every word the blonde said to him during that short time, every comfort he gave Fingolfin when he caught sight of his white hair.

"Age is my fortune," he had told him. "Many of my kin couldn't even survive birth, and just died in their mothers' wombs. What right do I have to wail about being able to live for long years?"

"To witness their fathers' death is the road every Secondborn must tread. If someone fails to do so, he's either an orphan, or he was parted from his parents for some reason. Could the latter two be better than the former?"

"Hold the heads of your friends on your knees, watch them die, carve words on their gravestones, visit their tomb every year. All this will leave eternal scars in one's heart. But hope remains, my dear Elvenking, for the meaning of death is to serve the next generation, no matter as encouragement or warning. For us who are so short-lived that hardly have any time to live at all in your eyes, inheritance is everything."

Those words were very unlike the Eldar's fashion, but Fingolfin conveyed them to these grieving Elves nonetheless. The more he looked back, the more he remembered his days with the Men in Dor-lómin. Hador, his son who did not have his blood. The blonde youth came into the service of the High King in his teens, until he became the Lord of Dor-lómin and fathered many children. Fingolfin will see Fingon and Turgon one day as long as he waited, but he could not hope to wait for Hador Lórindol in Lórien, or any of his children. He turned as sorrowful as those Elves who died in the Unnumbered Tears, so he often avoided them - he could not let them see their comforter's weakness - to shed tears by Lake Lórellin. Though not entirely fitting, but this perhaps was the grief of Lúthien when she lay by the corpse of Beren, of Aegnor who waited for Andreth fruitlessly in Mandos, of Finrod who buried Bëor with his own hands.

"Are you mourning the death of your mortal child again?" Fëanor came to his side and asked.

Fingolfin wiped away his tears. "I miss him...he and his children, they gave me so much joy...in that last time..."

"Hador lived for six decades. Seven years, if converted into the Year of Trees. Shorter than the time I was banished from Tirion!"

"He was my son, Fëanáro!" Fingolfin growled. "But I will never find him...him, and all men who have his blood, gone forever from this Arda...I will never see him again no matter how many times I die!"

"Isn't there one who has his blood just over there?" Fëanor pointed to the sky. "It's just that he's not a man."

Fingolfin following the direction he pointed at, and Eärendil's star came into his sight. "Ardamir?" Fingolfin murmured in surprise.

"You couldn't possibly have forgotten who your grandson-in-law is, could you? Tuor son of Huor. Tuor of House Hador."

"...Yes, my blood, and Hador's blood as well!" Fingolfin leapt into the water for this sudden joy, rushing towards the star with wide arms. "And Ardamir's sons, those twins, they will have their children, too! My son Hador still lives! Hope remains! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!"

"The night is passing!" Behind him, the Noldor responded as they beheld the star in the heavens.

No test could soothe these Noldor, so when three years had passed, one of the Eagles of Manwë descended on the roof of Fingolfin's house, and declared to them the victory of the War of Wrath, the death of all dragons, and the banishment of Morgoth into the Void. Only then did their tears stopped, as they embraced each other in laughter. They packed their things and departed from Lórien in pairs, eager to meet their family and friends. Fingolfin and Aredhel remained, but they were overjoyed as well. The night they sent away the last Elves, Fingolfin stood waiting on the shore with the tapestry of two souls wrapped around himself, preparing to share his delight when Fëanor arrived.

Irmo came rowing towards him - though he rarely used a form repeatedly, Fingolfin could recognize him since he often passed by and went looking for Estë on the island in the middle of the lake - with Fëanor at his side. The Lord of Dreams delivered his passenger and went away on his boat in silence. Fingolfin sensed something wrong; he removed Fëanor's hood, and saw his bright eyes filled with despair, his face twitching as if suppressing his emotions as well as he could. Fingolfin had only seen him like this when Finwë was killed.

His brother threw himself into his arms, and Fingolfin caught him hastily. "Ñolofinwë," his shoulders shook like an earthquake, his voice sobbing. "Nelyo...Kano...my sons, my children, they..."

"What happened to them?" Fingolfin asked in bewilderment. He realized that his brother was carrying a tapestry. Fingolfin unfolded it, and saw that embroidered on it was the copper-haired Elf leaping into the flames with a Silmaril, and the dark-haired one throwing another into the sea with scarred hands. He understood everything in an instance, and his brother's grief mirrored in his own heart.

Fingolfin carried Fëanor inside and covered him with the tapestry on himself. He wiped away his brother's tears with soft moist moss, but when he opened the window to let in the starlight of Eärendil in hopes of soothing his pain, Fëanor clutched his head instead. "No! It burns, it hurts!"

Fingolfin's heart clenched. He quickly closed the window and lay down beside Fëanor, wrapping his arms tightly around him. Fëanor wept until he fell asleep in weary. Fingolfin had wanted to find some food and water for him, but as soon as he attempted to leave, Fëanor's brows furrowed, so he stayed and went to sleep with him throughout the night.


	3. Chapter 3

They woke in the early morning, the sunlight shone gently on the tapestry hung on the balcony, the one embroidered with the scene of Fëanor and Fingolfin's reconciliation under the Trees, the leaves shimmered as if shaking with the flow of the tapestry in the breeze. The despair in Fëanor's eyes had become calmer, as he lay in Fingolfin's arms idle and compliant, his dark locks spreading on the silken couch, luring Fingolfin to wind his fingers inside.

"Irmo persuaded Námo to let me come to you," said Fëanor. "For Findekáno's safe return. He has decided to stay in Mandos, as he loathes to return to the living world without Nelyafinwë."

"Therefore?"

"Therefore, to prevent Nelyafinwë's unwillingness to return resulting in the linger of Findekáno, Námo decided to let me be reborn completely, to put a yearning for life in Nelyo's heart, so that when his sentence in Mandos was done he will soon return, and Findekáno will come with him as well."

Fingolfin nodded as he caressed his cheeks. "I will look after you."

Fëanor smiled subtly. "You sound just like father."

"Stop talking," Fingolfin put a finger on his lips. "I'll find you something to eat."

Henceforth Fëanor settled in Fingolfin's house. Aredhel still spurned him, but out of pity, she didn't cast out her uncle, but simply moved to a further room, as she also learned the fate of the last Fëanorians. Fingolfin had wanted to remove the tapestries sewn with the fates of the Fëanorians, but Fëanor himself stopped him. "You didn't remove this," he pointed at the one showing Argon's death on the northern shores. "Nor this, this, or this," he pointed at Aredhel lying on a stone bed, Fingon surrounded by Balrogs, and Turgon at the moment before the white tower collapsed on him. "If you can bear it, I can do it as well."

"These tapestries..." Fingolfin said hesitantly.

"They are from my mother," Fëanor touched the one with a silver-haired mother holding a dark-haired boy. "Seems that she cares a great deal about you."

Within a few years, the people of Gondolin arrived with Turgon at their head. They hardly need any comfort from Fingolfin - Glorfindel's laughter and Ecthelion's songs did the work for him. They shared his love for Eärendil's star, as they all know their little prince very well. But Turgon did not rejoice with his people.

"Itarillë will not leave," he said to his father sadly. "Her husband, the man I respect...is mortal."

"I know, Turukáno. I know."

Tuor died of illness during their long voyage to Valinor, something Idril, as an Eldar, will never suffer in her life. With a broken heart, she threw herself into the waves though their ship was in sight of the shores of Aman. Her husband, raised by Elves yet has not a single drop of Elven blood, has departed this world once and for all. Would Iluvatar grant them a happy ending, as He did Beren and Lúthien? Fingolfin did not know, but Lórien was beautiful, and he was willing to wait until the end of the world.

Maeglin did not come with company. He went through the dark forest alone to find his mother's abode, and Aredhel embraced him with tearful eyes. It was the first time Fingolfin actually met this grandson of his; he resembled his mother in feature, but not as extroverted as her. He stared at Fingolfin as they met, shocked by the ancient light in his grandfather's eyes. "You are...?"

"Lómion, this is your grandfather, my father, Ñolofinwë Arakáno, the High King of the Noldor."

"Former High King," Fingolfin corrected. "I've always longed to see you, child. Address me with the language you're familiar with, Fingolfin, or Ñolofinwë."

"Ñolofinwë," he said, "your glorious majesty."

"I said, I'm only former High King."

"Shouldn't you be called Golfin then?" Fëanor interrupted half teasingly.

"I'm used to Fingolfin. You can use it as my nickname, Fëanáro, if you like, since I'm not High King only when you're present."

Aredhel and Maeglin lived away from the people of Gondolin, so that he wouldn't be spurned so early by his kin. Maeglin often came to Fingolfin to hear the tales of Valinor, but he went out with Fëanor as well, mining ores or smelting metal. "He has impressive talents," said Fëanor. "But there is shadow in his heart, and his brain is filled with steel and metal. He craves for light, but he cannot understand it."

"What do you suggest I should do?" asked Fingolfin.

"Just do what you're doing now. The point is about understanding his thoughts. The rest shouldn't be hard for you."

So a few days after that, Fingolfin told his grandson, "Itarillë will not come back. She would stay in the Halls of Mandos, waiting for her husband."

Maeglin's face twisted. "Until the end of the world?"

"Yes, if need be."

The young elf stood, pacing back and forth restlessly. "Always Tuor," he said between his teeth, "that insolent, useless mortal! I don't understand; why would she wait for a dead man instead of choosing me, who is alive and well?"

"Such is the marriage of the Eldar, Lómion. It only exists as long as both live or die. She chose to remain in Mandos because she wishes to remain Tuor's wife."

"The marriage of the Eldar! Salgant has told me so many times: the Eldar do not wed their close kin. Is that the reason?"

"No. I will not tell you the same words...at least I myself do not have the right to say them." Fingolfin spun the ring on his finger. "There is no wrong in your love for her, child. But she doesn't love you, and you mustn't take her. We are born to suffer this Arda Marred, this imperfect world, with no exception. Such is the rule, Lómion. You can think whatever you like, but there are things that you cannot do."

"So I deserve to be denied her love for all eternity?"

"You will not have her love, but not because you deserve this. It is simply the fact. Indulgence bears bad fruit, and lust for power leads to disaster, and put the cart before the horse, as a saying of Men goes. I know this very well."

"I've never indulged myself! I've never touched Itarillë or that son of hers before that, never! But I...I..."

"You were used, lured and deceived," Fingolfin continued. "Are you ashamed?"

"Of course."

"Come, Lómion. Let me tell you a story." Fingolfin pulled him down beside him. "Do you know the Kinslaying of the Noldor?"

"I do. Father always used this as reason to forbid me and mother from leaving."

"But you don't seem to know how it all happened. I will explain it to you."

He told from Finwë's two marriages to his conflict with Fëanor, to the creation of the Silmarils and the unchaining of Melkor, to the death of the Trees, the Noldor's exile, to the kinslaying in Alqualondë. Eventually, he told about Fëanor's burning of ships, his journey through the ice with his people, until the two houses reconciled and started their years in Middle-Earth.

"We cannot erase what we've done, Lómion," said Fingolfin. "We can only lay down our pride, and atone our sins with work."

"But how can we ever be forgiven?" Maeglin asked with despair in his voice.

"We will very possibly not be forgiven, but still, we have to atone. Not just for the people we hurt, for ourselves, too."

The day Maeglin and Aredhel departed, Turgon came to see them off. The young dark-haired elf held his uncle weeping, begging for his pardon, and Turgon had given it to him. Before they left, Maeglin asked Fingolfin one last question. "Will Itarillë ever come back, grandfather?"

Fingolfin paused and smiled. "She will, Lómion. She will."

"What gives you such confidence?" Fëanor asked him when they were gone.

"Itarillë's union with a mortal is meant to preserve hope. I do not think Ilúvatar will let their fate goes on to a tragic ending."

The people of Gondolin gradually left, but Turgon stayed to wait for Idril's return. His hate for Fëanor was greater than Aredhel's, so he moved to dwell on the other side of the lake, visiting Fingolfin once a month. As if to comfort Fëanor's grief, the new tapestries that appeared in Fingolfin's house were more about the happy days of the Fëanorians in Valinor. Fingolfin hung them up on the beams in chronological order, so that they flowed in the light and shimmered with all the other ones.

Fëanor couldn't suffer the light of Eärendil's star. At night he would stay inside the house, studying the human languages Fingolfin introduced to him with ink made from petal, or building his forge, or staring at the reflection of the star on the flowing tapestries. Fingolfin learned from him some skill of binding light to matter, filled a crystal bottle with water from Lórellin, and dissolved the starlight inside, putting it at Fëanor's bedside. The crystal was gathered, not mined, from one of the floating islands by Fëanor - the trees on that island bore crystal fruits, and never fell unless picked by squirrels with horns.

The light in the bottle did not hurt Fëanor, but every time he saw it, his movements ceased their usual decisiveness, hesitating to touch it. Fingolfin didn't push him, but covered the bottle with a piece of cloth every night to dim the light, so that he wouldn't be troubled by it to the degree he could not sleep. Sometimes when Fingolfin sat cross-legged in meditation on the glades, bathed in the starlight, Fëanor would lean by the window, admiring the skin gilded in a layer of lively silver and gold.

"Why didn't she hurt you?" Once Fëanor asked sourly when Fingolfin returned from his meditation. 'She' meant the Silmaril. "Your hands are dirtied by our crimes just like mine. Why do you always steal the love that should belong to me?"

"It has nothing to do with you jewel, brother, and it is not the love that should belong to you, but me," Fingolfin said with laughter in his voice. "You know well that the star isn't just a Silmaril. That is Eärendil Ardamir, my flesh and blood. Itarillë's son will never harm me."

"I am your flesh and blood," Fëanor mumbled. "Why doesn't he look after me a little?"

"Perhaps it's not that he didn't, but you couldn't suffer the light yourself."

"Me? Couldn't suffer?" Fëanor chuckled "The Silmaril is my creation."

"It's just my instinct."

Fëanor didn't retort, and never mentioned the matter again.

Years had passed when one day, the Maiar Eönwë came visiting their dwelling.

"Canafinwë Makalaurë's soul has arrived at Mandos," he announced.

"How?" Fëanor said in disbelief. "I thought Cano..."

"Elrond Peredhel and Elros Tar-Minyatur prayed for him five hundred times on the peak of Meneltarma. Elwing, daughter of Dior, sunk him into the waves with her own hands."

That night Fëanor kissed Fingolfin for the first time after rebirth, weeping into the pit of his neck in joy. Death has become a reward for the Fëanorians.

Years passed, and Eönwë visited again.

"The Sons of Fëanor shall be released. They can depart from Mandos and return to the living world if they wish."

"All of them? But they haven't served enough of the time Irmo told me. In fact, there is still a long way to go."

"Elrond Peredhel and Elros Tar-Minyatur prayed for Nelyafinwë Maitimo a thousand times on the peak of Meneltarma. The Valar has pardoned him and his brother, at Eru's bidding."

The Fëanorians slowly arrived, first the red-haired twins, next the brothers that fell in Doriath, and at last Fingon and Maglor supporting Maedhros. Even the twins of Finarfin had come; after hearing their sister's choice to remain in Middle-Earth and heal its wounds, they decided that they shouldn't fall behind her and stop losing themselves in grief. Fëanor begged for forgiveness to all of her sons, and almost all of them shook their heads and said there was no need. Only Maedhros and Maglor embraced him, and said, "I forgive you, father."

None of the Fëanorians stayed long in Lórien, either going in search of their mother or those whom they had failed or hurt, and Fëanor didn't keep them. Fingon left with Maedhros, Angrod and Aegor head towards Tirion where their father ruled, but Turgon remained, waiting for his daughter.

"Shouldn't you go with your children?" Fingolfin asked Fëanor.

Fëanor didn't speak for a long time, as if a war was going on in his mind. "They must need your company," Fingolfin added.

"I know. I wish to go with them too, but..." he hesitated. "I cannot leave."

"For what reason?"

"Don't ask," Fëanor held him close. "You should not return to the living world after me. I will not leave you again."

Years passed, and Eönwë visited one last time. That day the star of Eärendil was dim.

"Elros Tar-Minyatur has passed away. Eru acknowledged his deeds and pitied the grief of his brother and father. He decides to give them the compensation they deserve," he announced. "Tuor son of Huor will be returned to Arda, with the span of days of the Firstborn and dwell in this Blessed Land. It is his own wish as well. Eärendil Ardamir can come to Valinor any time, to reunite with his parents."

And that was the end. That day Turgon and Fingolfin stood side by side near the gate of Mandos, and watched Tuor and Idril walked out of it hand in hand. Turgon held and spun with his daughter with tears of joy, while Tuor looked at them smiling, casting glances at Fingolfin's direction. "You must be the High King Ñolofinwë," he said. "It's my pleasure to meet you. I'm..."

"No need to introduce yourself, child. I know you," Fingolfin petted his blond hair. "I know your ancestor."

"My ancestor? You mean Hador Lórindol." Tuor blushed a little from Fingolfin's amiable touch.

"Yes," Fingolfin said softly. "I can see him in you."

The last of Fingolfin's line had departed from Lórien, and only the two of them remained at the lake. Under some unspoken agreement, neither Fëanor nor he left immediately, but spent some more time together in his dream-like place. In summer when the sun burned hot, they chatted and drank cool ale in pavilions, and Fingolfin would take a grape between his teeth to feed into Fëanor's mouth. In autumn the leaves turn red, Fëanor would organize by the window the histories of Middle-Earth he heard from the Noldor, while watching Fingolfin bathe in the lake through a thin layer of fabric, as maple leaves fell in Fingolfin's damp hair. In winter the snow fell, they shared hot food in their kitchen and snuggled up against each other in the mornings, unwilling to leave the comfort and warmth of the bed. In spring the flowers bloomed, they explored in Lórien and lay down in the woods of black bamboo when tired, and Fëanor would watch Fingolfin dance the Vanyarin ritual dance, his light cyan robe showing the contours of his body. Fëanor didn't remember ever having such a happy time with Fingolfin.

But still, Fëanor dared not took off his dark robe under Eärendil's star. Ñolofinwë was right, he thought, I could not accept. That light is my father's blood, my sons' suffering, the reason why I swung my sword against my kin. Yet after all this, the light of the Silmarils was still pure, while his hands were drenched in blood. Indeed he could not suffer it.

Until one day, he saw Fingolfin meditating on a rock in the pond under a waterfall. At once Fëanor was mesmerized by the sight - Fingolfin was dressed in a white robe, his back straight, his skin pink like the peach flowers by the water, his hair cascading down to his hips. His eyes were closed, lashes resting on the cheeks; his hands formed a gesture in front of his chest, and starlight gathered at his side. The ruby on his ring stored the light he attracted for so many years that it glowed like fire, gilding a golden halo around Fingolfin's person. Ottelias with white petals and golden stamen bloomed in the pond beneath him, like stars gathering around the moon.

If his hair was gold instead of dark, he could be a Vanyar, or even one of the Ainur. He even started to starve himself like the Vanyarin monks, not because he had no appetite, but that there was no need. He needed no umbrella when it rained, because he could "ask" the water to avoid him. In gales, he could stand as firm as a pine, because he could "ask" the wind to go around him.

But Fëanor didn't want him to be this unworldly. He wanted Fingolfin to be a Noldor, one full of passion and struggling in this world, one that loved him and hated him. He would drag him down from Oiolossë and keep him on the ground, at his side, as he captured the light of the Trees and trapped them in his jewels.

Heart pounding, Fëanor removed his dark robe. He paused for a moment, and with a cunning smile he stripped off the rest of his clothes. He walked naked into the water, swam to the rock where Fingolfin sat, caressing his ankles with gentle strokes. A realization suddenly dawned on him; he turned towards the direction which Fingolfin faced, and saw Eärendil's star hanging in the heavens.

"My creation and your flesh and blood, combined as one," he said lowly. "No one will look at her and say she's a Silmaril now. Always the star of Eärendil, the brightest light. When I swore the Oath, the 'kin' I mentioned didn't include you, naturally. Should I shoot down that star from the sky?"

Fingolfin didn't open his eyes; even his breaths weren't uneven. Fëanor lay a kiss on his knee. "My Oath made it my obligation to do so. But how can I do it? How can I harm the son of your beloved granddaughter, the descendent of your mortal child? I've seen so many of my kindred smile at that star, like they used to do when I wore my jewels on my head. I haven't seen anyone smile to my creations for ages, Ñolofinwë. But how can I bear that she's not in my hands? She is my masterpiece, my masterpiece that cannot be copied in any way."

Fingolfin still made no move. Fëanor leaned in to nibble at his ear. "I no longer fear her light, Ñolofinwë. But I know that doesn't mean my sins have been washed away. Is it truly like you said, that Eärendil favored me for I'm your flesh and blood? It's in no way possible - Nelyo and Cano forced his wife into killing herself, and kidnapped their children too, as they would possibly see it."

Fingolfin opened his eyes, as if a statue had come to life. He tilted his head to look into Fëanor's eyes. "If you truly wish to shoot down that star, you'd be planning from the beginning. You are not the kind to hesitate."

"Anything concerning you is exceptional."

Fingolfin touched Fëanor's cheek with his right hand. The warm light of the ring felt comfortable and familiar. He hadn't been this close to the light of his creation for a very long time.

"You've never hurt my children," said Fingolfin. "Even when you hated me the most."

"Perhaps it's never about my hate for you. I just need a reason to do anything I wish."

"Then I must not let you. That star is my flesh and blood, I will not allow you to harm him."

"I thought so as well," Fëanor's lips moved to the corner of his mouth. "If that is the case...I demand fair repayment."

"My pleasure," said Fingolfin, as Fëanor pulled him into the water.

Fëanor's deft fingers pried open Fingolfin's white robe, and the currents bore them away. Their tongues chased each other, dark hair tangled, the warmth of the ruby sheltering them from the cold of the water, waking the lust they hadn't felt for ages. Fëanor pulled him to the shore, guiding Fingolfin to sit on his lap, grabbed a fistful of peach petals on the shore to crush in his hands, reaching inside Fingolfin's hole with the juice on his fingers. After a few hasty stretches, Fëanor pushed himself inside him, unable to wait any longer.

They were both virgins, suppressing their urge to submit here and then; the new body hadn't been tested by lust. Fëanor held Fingolfin tight against him, grabbed his hair to exchange hot, wet kisses, his hips moving in desperate passion. He swallowed Fingolfin's sobbing moans, stroking his sensitive flanks and nipples, wanting to give back some of the pleasure he gave him. Fingolfin threw back his head, pale neck bending like that of a swan, brows furrowed in both pain and joy, calling "Fëanáro" again and again.

They didn't last long. Soon Fingolfin came biting Fëanor's shoulder, and Fëanor spun him down on the moss, shivering in euphoria after a few quick thrusts.

The red light of the ring covered them with warmth. Fëanor lay dreamily on the soft moss, and not until the fish in the pond started nibbling at their heels, did Fingolfin pulled him up and returned to their dwelling.

His half-brother pushed him on the bed, covering him up with a tapestry, fondling between his legs through that layer of soft fabric. This time the sex was far more patient, as Fingolfin teased him with his finger, his lips, the tapestries, and the wildflowers in the vase. He only started to be serious when Fëanor came once just from the foreplay. Fingolfin opened the bottle of starlight on the bedside, dipping his fingers inside the shimmering water, reaching them into Fëanor's body. "Your creation, and my flesh and blood," Fingolfin murmured in his ear, pulled out his fingers and entered him. The tapestries that hung all over the room danced and flowed in the breeze, occasionally letting open a crevice that revealed the insides, releasing the lustful pants and the sight of two bodies entwining like snakes.

The next morning they woke and saw the star of Eärendil shooting towards Aman, dragging a long starry tail. Just like Eönwë had promised, the brightest star was coming to the Blessed Land to reunite with his parents.

"Your great-great-grandson," Fëanor kissed the tip of Fingolfin's nose. "Shall we meet him?"

"And the Silmaril. Are you sure you can control yourself?"

"There is no way I can control myself. That is why you must stay close to me."

"To stop you?"

"No. To give me repayment whenever I demand it."

A few days later, the house by Lórellin became empty, with only the tapestries flowing in the wind, and the bottle of starlight resting on the bedside. After an age, the last High King of the Noldor and his people that fell in the War of the Last Alliance shall depart from Mandos, and find their comfort and rest in this place, waiting for the day to reunite with their friends and family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the end! Hope you all enjoy!


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